


The Thirteenth Sign

by Shadowy_Temptress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Apocalypse, Astrology, Crack, Elemental Magic, M/M, Multi, OOC, Rochefort is Evil, Rochefort is a Dick, Sorta Modern Crack, Zodiac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Temptress/pseuds/Shadowy_Temptress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zodiac Crack AU.</p><p>Jean de Treville, the thirteenth in a long line of Guardians to the Zodiac Spirits, had only two jobs - to watch over the vessels of the twelve Zodiac Spirits, and to seek the Spirit of the Serpent Bearer in order to seal it, to prevent a terrible prophecy from coming true.</p><p>Naturally, everything goes horribly wrong, and the fate of the world is now at risk.</p><p>Thanks to the Astrologer Richelieu's pride and stupidity, the Spirit of the Serpent Bearer ends up in the wrong hands, to a man prophesized to bring about the end if not stopped before the turn of the year. It is now up to the two of them to find the prophesized Four, chosen by the Zodiac and the Elements, to take back the Spirit and its vessel before it's too late.</p><p>Not to be taken seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! Here's another one of my crack AUs! Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment, they're always welcome! I don't bite.

**November 29**

“Armand, it’s gone,” a middle-aged blond man whispered, his voice betraying the dread he felt at not being able to prevent what had happened under his nose. The man was Jean de Treville, Guardian of the Zodiac, the thirteenth of the Treville bloodline. He had one task, and that was to seal the spirit of the Serpent Bearer and ensure the terrible prophecy, spoken of since the guardianship of the first Treville, did not come to pass. As he looked down into the ornate wooden chest, at the empty spot where a black stone was supposed to be, he knew that he had failed.

Another man, his hair gray, his eyes icy and his body clad in a fine burgundy coat, looked up from the papers in front of him, stood up from his seat, stepped behind the Guardian and followed the latter’s gaze to the chest’s velvet-lined interior. Armand de Richelieu was the Astrologer, one who had the power to read the stars and spoke their secrets. By day he was the Archbishop, his demeanor commanding respect and fear from most. In reality however, he was one of merely two people who knew the truth of the Zodiac, a truth that had existed since the beginning of time. It was him who knew the language of the stars, and who bore the burden of keeping its secrets from the rest of the world, a world with a people that both did not believe, and feared its own ruin. 

It was for the common good, both men thought, that the prophecy be prevented from passing beyond the doors of the hidden sanctum. Richelieu in particular, opposed the revelation of the augury. He doubted the people’s capacity to believe and leave matters to the two of them, for he knew a terrible secret that the stars had whispered to him, a secret he never once breathed to the Guardian, until today.

“You had one job, Jean. One job,” he spoke slowly, before placing his hands on the shoulders of the shorter man and turning him around abruptly. Richelieu’s eyes were cold with fury, his mouth twisted into an expression of anger.

“Tell me, imbecile, did you misplace it? Or did you let someone with half the brains I have take off with it?” The Astrologer’s voice was cold and hard. Treville looked away in shame, not wanting to look into the eyes of the man he considered his only friend.

“I saw nothing and heard nothing, Armand. I’m telling you, this is no normal act of burglary,” he admitted, looking back into the box once more, where twelve, rather than thirteen, stones lay. Both of them knew too well which stone was missing – the Ophiuchus stone, the only one that held no spirit within it. Tonight was the night they were to seal it, the night of Ophiuchus’ rising, but it appeared that somebody had found out their terrible secret and stolen the vessel. 

Richelieu thought about his secret once more. While the Guardian had not been the most watchful, he could not help but hold himself at least partially responsible for hiding things from the man as well. He knew of the Guardian’s burden of protecting the Zodiac spirits and seeking out Ophiuchus; and he did not want to add to it. He realized at that moment, however, that it had been a mistake. Only months prior, stars had given him a warning and a name, yet he failed to warn the man, thinking that it was his own duty to deal with the dark sorcerer who bore the dreaded name, the sorcerer who would very soon bring about doom if nothing was to be done.

At that single moment, he realized his own pride, and whose error it truly was.

“Rochefort,” he murmured, fear in his once-lofty voice. It was, as he dreaded. “I’m sorry, Jean. I’m so sorry,” he apologized, letting go of the Guardian in shame. Treville jerked forward and grabbed the older man’s hand, tugging at it roughly. The gray-haired man turned around, the look in his eyes one of regret and pain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?! Who is this Rochefort?” Treville demanded, his blue eyes flashing and his usually calm demeanor replaced by one of anger.

“I was proud, Jean. I wanted to spare you the burden; I thought that I would be able to prevent this from coming to pass. Instead, I’ve doomed this world. As for who he is, I do not know. I do know, however, that very soon, he will absorb the spirit of the Snake Bearer and its vast powers,” Richelieu sighed, turning to face Treville once more. “If he is not stopped before the turn of the year, our end will come as he wreaks havoc. The Serpent Bearer’s spirit, the element of the void…they are not meant to be contained by anything other than its vessel, and certainly not within one man,” he cautioned.

“But the prophecy…it’s impossible. How could the twelve spirits of the Wheel be held in four chosen?” Treville asked, his Arian temper cooling down as he saw the remorse on the Astrologer’s face. He shook his head and exhaled. “I might forgive you when the end comes, but I’m sure that many others would not. You truly doomed us all, Armand,” he murmured, his shoulders slumping.

Richelieu stood silently, taking in the gravity of the Guardian’s words. How indeed, could twelve spirits reside in the body of but four? Treville had told him of the Spirits’ nature – powerful, volatile and unpredictable. For one to house a Spirit was already a risk. How much more dangerous was it for four people to house twelve Spirits? For a few moments, the Astrologer could not think of anything, until he recalled a phrase his father and mentor always repeated.

 _For like attracts like,_ Richelieu thought, remembering the nature of the Spirits. Three were of Fire, three were of Earth, and three were of Air and three of Water. The prophecy had spoken of the four chosen wielding the four Elements alongside bearing the twelve Spirits. If like truly attracted like, perhaps there was a way.

“Jean, recite the part in the prophecy about the chosen, “ he urged, desperate to find an answer. The younger man nodded as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

_The Harbinger will bring the end_

_Lest four Chosen by the Elements and the Constellations_

_Come together as one_

_Water, mysterious and deep_

_An enigma, unyielding as the waves, hard as ice_

_Air, tender yet fierce_

_Gentle as a zephyr, ruthless as the tempest_

_Earth, strong and sure_

_Steady as the ground, a diamond in the rough_

_Fire, passionate and wild_

_A bright flame, near impossible to tame_

Treville finished, looking expectantly at Richelieu, as if to ask him if a solution had been found.

“Like attracts like, Jean. The Spirits are drawn to individuals whom they are matched with, Air to one of Air, Earth to one of Earth. Do you get where I’m heading to?” Richelieu spoke, his voice holding a certainty that the Guardian could not ignore. The latter nodded his head slowly.

“Each person has three signs, Jean. There is the Sun Sign, the Moon Sign and the Ascendant. Three affinities. Each of our chosen four must have three different affinities with the Zodiac, all of the same Element, within him or her. Each of our four must be associated with a different element,” he explained, before turning around and heading to his desk to pick up one of his charts.

“If like attracts like, I have a theory that this is how the chosen will arise,” he continued, pointing at the twelve glyphs on the wheel, first the ones of Water, inked in blue, then the silver ones of Air, followed by the green ones of Earth, and lastly, the red ones of Fire. Treville nodded in understanding, before turning his head towards the chest once more, looking down at the twelve stones that served as vessels for the Zodiac Spirits.

“That actually might work,” he began, before shaking his head. “But we only have until the turn of the year, Armand. How could we be sure that it wouldn’t take that long for the Spirits to choose their hosts?”

“You forget that as the Astrologer, I could enchant them, direct them to their paths. They will find their way,” Richelieu replied rather smugly.

“Before you get any ideas, Armand, I will not be one of them. My burden is already a difficult one,” Treville warned, giving him a dark look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting Zodiac profiles of our main characters, for your reference. First up are Treville's and Richelieu's!
> 
>  **Jean de Treville** | _Guardian of the Zodiac_  
>  **Age:** 44  
>  **Birthday:** April 13, 5:38 AM  
>  **Sun Sign:** Aries ♈  
>  **Moon Sign:** Libra ♎  
>  **Ascendant:** Taurus ♉
> 
>  **Armand de Richelieu** | _Astrologer_  
>  **Age:** 54  
>  **Birthday:** September 9, 9:34 AM  
>  **Sun Sign:** Virgo ♍  
>  **Moon Sign:** Pisces ♓  
>  **Ascendant:** Scorpio ♏
> 
> And…who might these chosen four be? ;) Tune in to the next chapter for the first one! XD
> 
> Anyone want to take a stab as to who these four are? ;) Guess which element would claim which? ;)


	2. Earth - Diamond in the Rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Ready to see who the first one is? I started with the most obvious one. :P Such a tease, aren't I?

**Paris, November 30**

Porthos du Vallon opened one eye, and then another, finding himself sprawled on the floor in the middle of a familiar, dimly lit establishment, the strong smell of ammonia, rising from a bottle grasped in a long-fingered hand connected to a familiar leather-clad arm, wafting into his nose. Pushing himself up with one strong arm as he rubbed his throbbing head with the other, he blinked once, then twice, trying to get accustomed to the warm orange light that assaulted his vision.

“Wh-what happened?” He asked, looking around, the fog in his mind only just lifting. He was inside his bar, The Court of Miracles, or “The Court” as many called it, recognizing the strange combination of its rustic yet warm interior design, surprisingly expensive pieces here and there, and its eclectic assortment of unusual decor, a design choice he had made entirely by himself and was particularly proud of. Several pairs of worried eyes, belonging to people sitting on tall bar stools, chairs and velvet couches, stared back at him.

“What do you think happened?” A voice replied in a familiarly dry manner, coming from Porthos’ left. It belonged to a man with piercing blue eyes, fair brown hair and porcelain skin, dressed in an expensive dark peacoat, a deep blue scarf of fine wool lazily draped over his neck, his inscrutable expression a mask for his concern, and a half-empty bottle of Delirium Noël dangling between two white fingers. His breath smelled heavily of alcohol, a symptom of his proclivity for drink. “You collapsed outside, Porthos,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, not sounding the least bit intoxicated, despite having drunk more than any other remotely sober person in the bar. 

“Athos, I swear I didn’t-…” Porthos started, meaning to argue that he wasn’t in any way intoxicated, but was interrupted by someone putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Of course you didn’t, or are you so old that you forgot?” The teasing voice of another man cut in. _Aramis, naturally_ , Porthos thought as he turned his head, towards his other friend, who was now pocketing the smelling salts. Aramis was lean, dark-haired and handsome, his tight, black biker leathers hugging his body like a second skin. Unlike the near-unfathomable Athos of the serious, melancholy disposition, Aramis was an odd paradox with an easy smile, no filter, and a reckless streak, both a romantic and a heartbreaker, charming, kindhearted and friendly, yet had a ruthless and gleefully sadistic side to him. “You’ve been out for fifteen minutes.”

“Piss off,” Porthos muttered as he picked himself up, Athos grabbing one of his arms to steady him. A sharp pain pressed down on his chest, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to embarrass himself further. The last thing he wanted was for his roguish friend to find reason to mock him at his expense once again. The blue-eyed man leaned close to his friend’s ear, his eyes flicking towards the onlookers.

“Better we take this outside, now’s not the time to speak of what we saw,” he breathed, patting Porthos’ shoulder a couple of times. “Best that you head home and rest as well. Flea told Aramis that she’d take over.”

 _What we saw?_ Porthos wondered to himself as he tried to look back on what exactly made him, steady, sure-footed, obviously-not-drunk Porthos, pass out outside. Instinctively, he placed a hand over his chest, rubbing at the material of his dark red Henley shirt, feeling no sign of blood or holes that might have pointed to an ambush, an uncommon occurrence even for the part of Paris where the bar was. What then, had his two best friends seen outside?

“Gods Porthos, just listen to them and get the hell home before I change my mind,” the aforementioned Flea snapped from behind the bar’s counter, her hands on her hips and a scowl darkening her pretty face. Porthos looked back at her and smiled tiredly. He did not want to burden his oldest friend with taking an extra four hours; the night was still young after all, and he wasn’t feeling that bad, apart from a slight headache. Yet he also knew that when it came to Flea, he was always going to end up losing and giving in.

“Alright, alright. I know there’s no arguing with you, Flea,” he gave in with a sigh, putting his hands up in the air in mock surrender. Athos held out Porthos’ military-style winter jacket for him to put on, while Aramis picked up his helmet from the table. The three of them walked out of the bar at the same time, closing the door behind them. The chill of early winter took over their bodies, a far cry from the warmth of the bar.

“Remind me to bring the handcuffs the next time you put your hands in the air,” Aramis laughed breezily, placing an arm around Porthos’ shoulder. Athos groaned, wrapping his warm scarf tighter around his neck as a cold breeze blew past.

“Keep your kinks to yourself and stop torturing him,” he warned the younger man, before he pointed at what appeared to be a dent on the pavement. “There, Porthos. That was the spot,”

Porthos stepped slowly towards it; his urge to know stronger than in the past minutes, his eyes focused on the odd crack he swore had not been there until now.  He knelt on the cold, hard concrete and stroked his fingers over the jagged fracture, which ran the entire width of the sidewalk, with a gentle manner that was unexpectedly tender to those who did not know him, yet came as no surprise to those who did. He rubbed the aching side of his head with his free hand as he dove into the depths of his memory. Sturdily built and strong he might have been, but even he doubted that a simple collapse could have resulted in literally splitting the pavement in half.

And then, everything came back to him as his fingers caressed the fissure for the second time. _Green lights, three green lights,_ he thought as he remembered what had happened.

 

* * *

 

_Porthos stepped out of the bar, distracted by some shouting a short distance away. It was most likely a drunken brawl, he thought, all too used to them, and he knew he had to break the thugs up before things turned ugly. Before he could turn his head towards the source of the noise however, an odd surprise greeted him. A trio of green balls of glowing light, floated in front of him. For a few moments, they hovered, unmoving and their glow waxing and waning ever so slightly._

_He was not prepared for what happened next, for the three green orbs shot forward simultaneously before the man could react, and buried themselves into his chest._

_He had not expected the impact of three simple light orbs to hurt so much, or burn so much. The light had forced itself into his chest with the sensation of a brand imprinting itself onto his skin._

_Then, the silent explosion happened, the emerald flare sending a wave of dizziness to his head and nearly blinding him. He had stepped back, planting his foot down firmly to steady himself. Turned out, the ground was not exactly all that steady; it gave way under him with a crack and he fell backwards, hitting the back of his head and passing out._

 

* * *

 

“Three green lights…explosion,” he realized out loud, looking back at both of his friends. Had they really seen the same thing? Porthos was not typically one to believe in strange happenings unless he saw them, yet here he was, having apparently witnessed something he might have thought was implausible just a few minutes ago. Were his best friends really going to believe him, or would they dismiss what he said? Would they think that the usually levelheaded Porthos had somehow just been hallucinating?

“Exactly,” Athos confirmed, Aramis nodding in agreement. The two men knelt beside Porthos as the tall, dark man placed his palm down on the fissure, noticing that it was oddly warm, _too_ warm even, considering the frost.

“Gods, Porthos…would you look at that,” Aramis looked at Porthos, and then the crack, his expression one of disbelief. The taller man quirked a dark brow in response.

“Look at what, ‘Mis?” He asked, before noticing the shift in Aramis’ gaze. He followed it, his eyes falling on the crack once more; only the crack was not anymore how it was when he first saw it. Rather than merely a vertical split, there was now a short, horizontal fracture bisecting the first, its line as jagged as its predecessor. The glow of energy, a familiar shade of green, faintly emanated from it.

“We have to get you out of here,” Athos muttered, and Porthos sensed the fear in his voice, though he did not understand why.

“Who knows who might take advantage of you when they see this? When they find out?” Athos continued, effectively answering Porthos’ question.

“I’ll take him, Athos. You drive too slowly, and his car’s still at the shop,” Aramis offered smoothly, before helping Porthos up. The older man huffed indignantly at the remark.

“He isn’t serious. I mean, nobody drives as slowly as the Archbishop,” Porthos assured, cracking a smile. Athos crossed his arms, ready to retaliate with a comeback of his own.

“I’ll be having Porthos. The weight of you both will break your precious Harley,” Athos countered, his voice and expression deadpan, though his eyes betrayed his jest. This did not stop Aramis from snorting with chagrin, however, as Athos got the last laugh.

 

* * *

 

Armand de Richelieu had a difficult time keeping up with the black Porsche that he had seen the Chosen of Earth enter, even though he found himself driving faster than he was used to – which was truthfully not all that much faster. He knew he should have thanked the stars for his luck that at least one of the Chosen had been found in Paris. However, he could not help but wish that the Zodiac had picked another man. He preferred that the four chosen be people of control, refinement and noble bearing, and the man he had witnessed in front of the bar, the one the elements had led him to was anything but.

Yet in the end, it was not his place to argue with the stars.

He sat in wait behind the wheel as the Chosen stepped out of the black Porsche in front of him, followed by another man, expensively-dressed and fair of countenance, who hugged him and bid him goodbye.

As the car drove off, the Astrologer decided to make his move before he missed the opportunity. He opened the door of his Lexus and stepped out, arranging the bottom of his black overcoat as he did.

“Archbishop Richelieu?” The dark-skinned man exclaimed; dark eyes trained on Richelieu. The Astrologer raised a hand in greeting before approaching the younger man purposefully.

“Chosen of Earth,” he whispered, prompting the Chosen to give him a look, the darkness and the scar over his left eye giving the illusion of an intimidating expression. Richelieu wasn’t shaken, however.

“You will know in time, if you come with me,” he promised. The man picked at one of the brass buttons of his military-style jacket, as if wavering over his choice. He stood his ground, however, rather than head back into the apartment complex.

“Tell me your name, Chosen,” the Astrologer prompted, his blue eyes fixed onto the younger man’s brown. “How old are you, and what of the day you were born?”

“Porthos du Vallon, Most Reverend,” he began, his tone laced with contempt and his breath coming out in white puffs. He hesitated slightly before he spoke once more. “Twenty-eight. April twenty-second.”

 _Interesting, a Taurean_ , Richelieu thought. He knew that the Zodiac would not have chosen any man if the conditions were not met, and standing in front of him was a rare sort – someone who possessed the qualities of a Chosen.

“Come with me, Porthos du Vallon. You must know, before time runs out,” he whispered, his proud demeanor breaking as he took Porthos’ rough hand in his own smooth one. “Now’s not the time to doubt, no harm will come to you,” he promised, realizing once more the enormity of his situation.

What right did he have to be picky, when the prophecy was already coming to pass? Perhaps this man was not as he first thought after all, but rather, a diamond in the rough.

 

* * *

 

**Paris, December 1, Midnight**

The sound of windows being flung open cut through the night and the silence of the dark, empty street. Nobody, however, witnessed the odd sight that followed – that of a man jumping out, a brief, bright flash of silver light, a sudden updraft that somehow shimmered faintly with the same color of starlight, and not a _thud_ on the pavement. No waking eye witnessed the strange spectacle, save for perhaps, the person on the other side of the windows, and the lone man on the pavement, who may or may not have been the building's returning master. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, great job guessing, guys! All of you got Porthos' right, so I started with him first!
> 
> Here's Porthos' Zodiac profile. :)
> 
>  **Porthos Isaac du Vallon** | _The Might of Gaia_ | Chosen of Earth  
>  **Age:** 28  
>  **Birthday:** April 22, 11:09 AM  
>  **Sun Sign:** Taurus ♉  
>  **Moon Sign:** Capricorn ♑  
>  **Ascendant:** Virgo ♍
> 
> As for who's next…we'll see. ;) Most of you got this one right though, so that's a hint! :P Any guesses? What do you guys think happened at the end of the chapter? ;)


	3. Air - The Zephyr and the Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, readers! Here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it! Most of you guessed this one right…so here it is!

**Paris, December 1, Morning**

Aramis d’Herblay sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his thick, dark waves as he looked down at his phone. He had attempted to call Porthos four times to check on him, but all his efforts went strangely unanswered, which made him start to worry, as he knew that it was unlike Porthos to ignore a call, let alone four in a row. Something was wrong, something was  _very_ wrong, and it coincidentally just _had_ to happen after he and Athos had found out a surprising thing about their friend the night before: that Porthos had some sort of magical ability. 

 _God, Porthos…what mess have you gotten yourself into this time,_ he thought as he rubbed his oddly sore shoulder blades, vestiges of a burning sensation lingering from his escape some hours before, not made any better by his recollection of the bizarre circumstances surrounding said escape, and the strange visions of lights so silver bright and wings of stardust that kept interrupting his sleep. He touched the “call” button with his fingertip once again, his eyes trained on the screen, hoping that his best friend would finally pick up. However, he had no such luck. The only reply he received was the operator’s pre-recorded message, stating that the number was unavailable at that moment, the fifth time he had to endure hearing the same torturous words, a reminder that he did not know of Porthos’ whereabouts.

He shut his eyes tightly, trying his best to keep himself from flinging his phone at the wall. Around him, a sudden gust picked up, which startled Aramis and snapped him out of his thoughts, egging him to open his eyes and looked around. His window was not open, and neither did he feel the wind blow around him. Did it have something to do with _that_ admittedly astonishing and exhilarating incident, or was he just sleeping so poorly that he was merely imagining the memory?

A couple of knocks on his door prompted him to get on his feet. He grabbed a pair of tight black leather pants and pulled them on as he made his way out of his room and towards the door, not bothering to clothe his naked torso. As he opened the door, the sight of a half-awake Athos, his eyes hangover red and his hair more disheveled than usual, greeted him.

"Athos, what the-…” the younger man exclaimed, surprised at the identity of his visitor and the terrible state he was in - blue eyes rimmed with dark circles, fair waves disheveled and porcelain skin paler than usual. What then tumbled out of Athos’ mouth interrupted and silenced him.

“Aramis, the Archbishop has him,” Athos breathed, unwrapping the fine black wool scarf around his neck as he stepped into the apartment. At the unexpected revelation, Aramis stood petrified by the door. For a few moments, he found himself unable to move after he heard the words from Athos’ lips. It took several moments for him to close the door and silently force one word out of his mouth.

“What?!”

“You heard it, Archbishop Richelieu has Porthos. I saw the man with my own two eyes,” Athos repeated, sinking down on one of the couches as he rubbed his forehead with two fingers. Aramis silently stepped away from his door and towards the kitchen counter, noticing his friend’s obvious lack of rest - if he had it bad, Athos looked as if he had it far worse. Despite his own tiredness and sleeplessness, he paused in front of the coffee machine and picked up the cup of mocha that he had just brewed a few minutes ago, deciding that his friend needed it more. He added two sprigs of mint on top of the froth to give it the sharp, icy flavor Athos preferred. Porthos enjoyed his coffee laced with the warm, earthy flavor of cinnamon, while Aramis himself, on the other hand, liked marshmallows.

“What do you mean the Archbishop took Porthos?” Aramis inquired as he sat down next to Athos and handed the cup to his best friend, gesturing for him to drink. “I don’t see any reason for him to just walk up to Porthos in particular out of nowhere,”

“Believe me, I saw him get out of his car right after I dropped Porthos off,” Athos peered over the rim of his cup at his younger friend’s state of half-undress as he drank, a look the younger man merely shrugged off, all too used to wearing much less. “Richelieu gave him a short talk and drove him away. I mean, surely you’re familiar with the Archbishop’s ride? 

“Try looking for someone who _isn’t_ familiar with his baby. A Lexus with a driving speed of twenty kilometers per hour maximum virtually screams ‘I’m the Archbishop, yo!’” Aramis snorted, smirking briefly before his expression turned grim once more, realizing that it was Porthos whom they had to focus on. “Of course I do, hell, I’ve even got his license plate memorized. AB-696-RC…tell me you managed to tail him.”

“Yes and no,” Athos took another sip of the hot, minty liquid as he leaned back on the couch. “I tried to, and I know where he stopped. The next part, however, is the part I don’t get.”

“Where did he stop?”

“Place Denfert-Rochereau. The catacombs. The Archbishop got out alone and headed for the entrance,” Athos narrated, Aramis hanging on to every word he said. “Kept looking around, as if to check if anyone was following him. You know, like he was hiding something. I think he even stared right at me at one moment. As for Porthos…he never once stepped out of the car. Richelieu went back inside the car as I left.”

“What the hell…” Aramis muttered, momentarily frozen in place as he took in Athos’ words. If he understood things correctly, Athos had just seen something he wasn’t supposed to be seeing, and Porthos was quite possibly under Paris at that very moment. “What if Richelieu brought Porthos inside after you left? What if he was just making sure that nobody was watching him?”

“I do not know what the man was up to, or whether he took Porthos underground or elsewhere. What I do know is that he has our friend,” Athos shrugged, though his eyes betrayed his fear. Aramis nodded slowly and pushed himself upwards, wincing slightly at the burning sensation on his shoulder blades erupting once more. He knew that if he wanted to have any chance of finding Porthos, he had to leave immediately. He turned his head, and saw that the older man’s eyes were trained on his back.

“Aramis, what’s going on with your back?” Athos’ stern eyes demanded an explanation. Aramis shrugged, as if to assure his best friend that nothing was wrong. This did not soften Athos’ look, however. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping with Marsac again.”

At the mention of his former boyfriend, Aramis shook his head wildly. How could he explain to Athos what had gone down that midnight, after what happened to Porthos?

“If you really must know, I was with the good doctor Lemay,” he sighed. “No worries though, I got away before Jacques caught me,” he assured, laying rest to any suspicion that he might have been hurt by the doctor’s possessive lover, who was a married man himself. Athos stood up after his friend and pressed his fingers over Aramis’ bare back. The latter looked over his shoulder and saw what looked to be two long, pink patches, not unlike minor burns. They were on the exact spots where he felt the strange sensation after the balls of silver light greeted him at the window; in the same nasty way the green lights did to Porthos – by colliding into his chest and exploding.

“ _Right_. You do know that hell hath no fury like Jacques-Michel Bonacieux scorned, and looking at these, you didn’t exactly come out unscathed,” Athos deadpanned. Aramis turned around to face the blue-eyed man, shaking his head once again and biting back a giggle. Jacques really  _was_ a jealous lover.

“That’s is not where it came from. I jumped out of the window before he saw me.” 

“Jumping out of the window in the middle of the night without a scratch? _Right_.”

“I'm not finished, I haven't even told you what happened right after I opened that window. Wait, let me show you something,” Aramis pointed out, before excusing himself. He headed back to his room and picked up his black leather jacket, checking its back, noticing that there were indeed no tears or rips in the soft leather. He draped it over his arm and exited once more, heading back to the couch.

“I didn’t exactly hit the pavement,” he began, placing his jacket on Athos’ lap. The latter held it up and noticed its unscathed back. He looked at the faint pink marks on Aramis’ shoulder blades, then back at the jacket once more, furrowing a brow, sensing that he knew what was coming next. Undoubtedly, this was not natural. 

“Let me guess,” he began, but was cut off by Aramis, who shifted so that he faced him. Athos could have sworn that he saw a flash of argent in his friend’s brown eyes.

“Three balls of light,” Aramis started, running a hand through his dark curls. “Not green like those that attacked Porthos, though. They were silver,” he clarified as he began to recount the odd events. As he spoke, the surer he was that they were real and had actually happened. A breeze started to blow around him as he recalled the explosion of silver light, the tingling sensation on his shoulder blades as he fell downwards, the cold gust that swept him up, and the pale, misty wings of silver starlight that kept him aloft. 

As he listened to his best friend, Athos noticed that, while the windows were shut, the wind picking up around the two of them. He knew right then and there, that Porthos was not the only one he had to fear for. He placed his hands on his friend's shoulders and gripped them firmly.

“Aramis, are you sure not a soul saw you?” He asked. Aramis nodded, the gale dying down to a calm.

“Nobody. I landed a street over. Had to walk ten minutes to get back to my bike.” he confirmed. “Anyway, we’ll deal with this later. Nothing’s going to happen to me…you know Jacques would have trashed this place earlier if he found out. We need to find Porthos, wherever he is…he's our matter at hand now.” Aramis got up and picked up his leather jacket, taking his keys out of its pocket.

“No, let me do the finding. With you being in Porthos’ situation, we couldn’t risk it,” Athos stood up, stepping in front of his friend, as if to block him. “Neither of us knows what the Archbishop is up to. Best that you stay safe.”

“Athos, this is _Porthos_ who’s at stake. I’m not going to hide here and do nothing just because of the Archbishop. It couldn't just be a coincidence,” Aramis argued. “Besides, today’s my day off, so hiding in the kitchen is out of the question. I could go to Place Denfert-Rochereau and wait there.”

“God, Aramis, are you an imbecile?” 

“Athos, surely he couldn’t recognize a man under a helmet? There is a chance that you did not see the whole thing. Porthos could still be in the catacombs," the younger man protested. "I mean, why would he stop at the catacombs if he isn't about to do anything in there?"

“And what if something goes wrong?” Athos pressed, though he did have to give Aramis credit. The man was more intelligent than most thought, after all.

“I will deal with the Archbishop myself. It's  _Porthos_. I have to do something,” Aramis stated stubbornly. Athos knew that he was fighting a losing battle, there was no budging Aramis when he set out to do something, especially when it involved Porthos or himself. 

“Fine, I’ll search the city and you keep watch near the catacombs, but don’t be reckless,” Athos gave in, heading for the door before looking gravely at Aramis, his eyes icy. “I don’t want a repeat of the Charon incident.”

 

* * *

  

 **Paris, December 1, Sunset**  

The Astrologer watched the man clad in black leather by the catacombs as the latter took off his black helmet, to reveal a familiar roguishly handsome face, a well-trimmed beard and dark waves pulled back into a small ponytail.

 _Why did it have to be that chef_? Richelieu thought as he watched the man lean forward on the handlebars of his motorcycle, as if waiting for something, or someone. He still managed to look rather suggestive doing such a simple act, despite the tense expression on his face. Unlike the case of Porthos du Vallon, the Astrologer was all too familiar with the pastry chef Aramis d’Herblay, and wondered what exactly the stars were up to, when they chose a man with such a reputation for philandering, and not merely with women at that.

 _The stars do not make mistakes. You are the Astrologer, not their master._  

He decided to make his move, striding towards the entrance of the catacombs, his cold eyes focused the man on the motorcycle.

“Well met, Chosen of Air, though I did not expect that it would be you,” he pronounced, meeting the man’s surprised brown eyes. Did Aramis really have the nerve to think that he was not going to be found?

“Where is Porthos?” Aramis demanded, the air around his growing restless. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned.

“All in due time, Aramis d’Herblay. You will find the answers you are seeking, as long as you follow me,” the Astrologer assured, seemingly unfazed, though he knew too well the nature of the element that was deceptively the gentlest, that a zephyr could easily become a tempest. “Now, what of the day of your birth?”

“I believe I could only answer that if you tell me what’s going on with Porthos, Most Reverend,” Aramis prodded at the ground with the pointed toe of his motorcycle boot and swept up the dark curls that fell over his forehead with a long-fingered hand, clad in a black biker glove. He gave the Archbishop an easy look and a smirk, the cocky look of one who did not know that the world’s fate was at stake, or perhaps the look of one who was both breeze and storm. Air was both gentle and deadly after all, it was an element that both caressed and killed.

“I can assure you, Porthos du Vallon is not in danger,” Richelieu replied. “Now, don’t make things more difficult than they are, Monsieur d’Herblay. How old are you, and what of the day of your birth?” 

“May thirty-first. I’m twenty-seven,” Aramis stated with ease, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes were different however – they expressed a strange mixture of suspicion and hope. Undoubtedly, the Chosen of Earth meant the world to him, the Astrologer suspected.

 _Gemini_ , Richelieu thought, making a mental note to check his charts, though he knew that the spirits did not lie. If like indeed attracted like, then this man, roguish though he was, somehow had affinities for the other two signs, or he would not have been Chosen.

“Come with me, you must now know. We don’t have much time,” the Astrologer murmured, looking around to see if anyone was watching them in the rapidly darkening dusk. “I promise, no harm will come to you, Chosen of Air,” he reassured, striding over to the door to the catacombs and pushing it open.

 

* * *

 

 **Paris, December 2, Midnight**  

Athos stepped out of Aramis’ apartment and into the freezing night, pocketing his phone as he did. Eight times, he had tried to call up his friend, and all of them went unanswered.

“I told you not to do anything reckless,” he murmured, burying his chin into his thick scarf as he walked back to his car. A strange sight made him freeze, however. One at a time, three small balls of glowing blue light floated lazily towards him, until all of them hovered steadily in front of him.

“No, no,” the blue-eyed man breathed. A split second after, the three glowing orbs launched themselves at him, colliding with his chest. A freezing chill spread across Athos’ body as an explosion of blue light momentarily blinded him, forcing a ragged gasp out of him as he got on his knees, the echo of rushing water filling his ears, followed by the sharp sound of ice splintering. He looked to the night, hoping for a moment's reprieve from his agony.

As his eyes turned skyward, snow began to fall from the dark heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, most of you got Aramis right, hehe…he's Air! I think Gemini is a nice sun sign for a paradox like Aramis, who is equal parts zephyr and tempest. XD
> 
> And here's Aramis' Zodiac profile! :)
> 
>  **Aramis René d'Herblay** | _The Silver Wing_ | Chosen of Air  
>  **Age:** 27  
>  **Birthday:** May 31, 9:41 PM  
>  **Sun Sign:** Gemini ♊  
>  **Moon Sign:** Libra ♎  
>  **Ascendant:** Aquarius ♒
> 
> And oh, no…what's going on with Athos? :O


	4. Water: The Enigma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, readers! Sorry for my slowness in updating! Here's a new chapter, focusing on Athos with some d'Artagnan!

**Paris, December 2, Evening**

Athos de la Fère lifted his glass and tilted it to his mouth, his dry throat begging for him to take another gulp of wine. No liquid poured out, however, and he peered into it to see what the matter was, though deducing from the chill his hand felt on the sides of the vessel, he had already a feeling that he knew what exactly had happened.

“Fuck,” he muttered, observing that he had not been mistaken. Instead of deep purple liquid, what lay inside the glass was a dark, frozen mass of wine. He looked up from his dark corner in the bar to see if anyone was watching him, finding no eyes trained in his direction. He looked down once more into his glass and blew gently onto the surface of the frozen wine. At first, nothing happened, but after a few puffs of his warm breath, the frost yielded immediately, and the alcohol resumed its liquid state, just as it was a minute ago. Athos picked up the glass once more, this time by its stem, and sipped from it. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the Archbishop would find him. He failed to protect his friends, first Porthos, then Aramis; he knew he had it coming for him.

What he did not know, however, was why almost the same thing happened to the three of them, one day after the other. Porthos assaulted with green lights, Aramis with silver, and himself with blue. All of them also manifested odd powers akin to magic right after, powers that he thought only to exist in myths and stories, and in the games Porthos loved to play. He recalled the fissure on the pavement that Porthos caused, the odd wind whipping through Aramis’ hair, and the snow that had suddenly fallen at midnight. None of the occurrences seemed natural, and he could not put a finger on any possible reason for them happening. Another thing he did not know was how the Archbishop was involved.

 _Stupid, so stupid. I should have stayed with Porthos, and talked Aramis out of waiting at the catacombs. Now they’re gone because of me_ , he thought, gulping down some more wine. The bottle was empty, yet it seemed to be the least of Athos’ concerns. In fact, the lonely night was just getting started, and he was inevitably going to have at least one more bottle before staggering back to his Porsche and driving himself home, unless the Archbishop found him first. There was no strong, loyal, lively Porthos to lean on and lift his spirits, no kind yet witty Aramis to snap him out of his stupor with his smirk and careless remarks. He had lost too much in all the twenty-nine years he lived, and he was close to his breaking point.

At that point, whatever outcome resulted from walking out of the bar no longer mattered to him. All he wanted were answers: what exactly was happening, what was it that he did not know, and the whereabouts of his best friends. Yet, the answers never came to him. If it meant crossing paths with the Archbishop, then it was most likely meant to be.

_After all, is it really a coincidence that these happened to the three of us in particular?_

He rested his forehead on his palms, now certain that both men were somewhere in the catacombs beneath Paris. He had found Aramis’ Harley parked just a few ways off from the entrance, and he knew how his younger friend felt about his ride. He did not exactly know Porthos’ whereabouts, but knew that only information that involved the latter could sway Aramis without fail. Their disappearances had to be connected, he thought, and the Archbishop was the only person he could truly suspect. He clenched his smooth hands into fists and rested them on the table once more.

 _Now’s not the time to wallow in self-pity,_ he realized, pushing himself up from his seat and wordlessly shuffling towards the polished wooden counter of the bar, amidst the loudness of the bar’s other patrons. He had purposefully avoided The Court of Miracles, not wanting to feel even more guilt over Porthos’ disappearance. Flea would have inevitably grilled him and demanded for Porthos had he shown up.

He took out his wallet, pulled out a couple of twenties, silently promising that he was going to search for clues after one more drink, and pushed them towards the bartender – a pudgy man with a potbelly and a dour look on his face.

“One more of the same, Mendoza,” he muttered. At that moment, a young man pulled out the stool next to him and sat on it. As he waited for his wine, Athos took a few moments to check out said youngster. Tall and lanky, with wide brown eyes, a smooth tan face and straight dark hair that touched his shoulders, the boy could not have looked any older than seventeen or eighteen. The salmon-colored hooded sweatshirt that he was bundled up in, and the striped stocking cap that covered his head only served to emphasize his youth.

“ID, now,” Mendoza demanded as the boy ordered a full glass of vodka. The boy groaned as he pulled off his hat, his face indicating that he saw it coming. He fished into the back pocket of his dark jeans and took out his wallet.

“For your information mister, I’m twenty-one today,” he informed, a clear note of annoyance in his voice. He held on to his wallet, as if he thought his words would have an effect on the bartender. The older man however, did not budge, as if he did not believe the boy. Athos admittedly could not blame Mendoza, as the boy really did have the countenance of a youth.

“Fine, have it your way, old man,” the boy snapped, taking out his identification card and tossing it on the counter carelessly. Mendoza took a hard look at it, laughed and pushed it back, before taking a bottle of wine and placing it in front of Athos, who then took it. He then took an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid, poured some of its contents into a short, wide glass and handed it over to the boy.

“Happy birthday Monsieur Charles d’Artagnan,” he greeted mockingly as the boy took the glass from his hands. Athos watched as d’Artagnan sniffed the inside, before promptly smashing the glass onto the counter, causing the bartender to jump back as the broken shards scattered. The young man was a fiery hothead for sure. 

“Didn’t I just prove that I was twenty-one, asshole? You dare mock me with this?” He demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Mendoza. Athos knew right then and there that he had to step in before things became ugly. In one swift movement, he stood between the bartender and the dark-haired boy, glaring at the former.

“Let me handle this,” he said through clenched teeth, before silently picking up the card from the counter and giving it a once-over. The boy was indeed twenty-one, much to his surprise, and it was indeed his twenty-first birthday. He looked over his shoulder at d’Artagnan and quirked a brow before facing Mendoza once more. He still had his doubts, but he did not want to see a youngster needlessly getting bullied, especially not when he was already burdened with two grave mistakes. He took out another bill from his wallet and tossed it towards the pudgy older man.

“Look, today is the boy’s birthday, whether he’s seventeen or twenty-one. Lay off him just this once, unless you’re looking for trouble,” he cautioned, icy blue eyes flashing with warning.

“I can deal with-…” d’Artagnan protested from behind, and Athos raised a hand to interrupt him, his expression unchanging. Mendoza shook his head before filling a new glass, this time with real vodka, if the label of the bottle was anything to go by. He forcefully lowered the glass onto the counter with a pound. Athos stepped aside with his bottle and d’Artagnan took his drink. The blue eyed man turned to head back to his corner, before looking back once more. He might not have asked for company, or wanted some, but he knew Mendoza and his pride.

“Come, boy. You could sit with me if you want,” he murmured reluctantly. D’Artagnan looked at him with surprised eyes, before shifting his gaze to Mendoza and back to him. The young man then got up and followed him back to the lone table tucked in the dark corner of the bar.

“Look, he won’t bother you now,” Athos assured as he sat, the boy mirroring his actions. “Tell me the truth, boy. Are you twenty-one or not?”

The boy sighed, before placing a hand to his forehead and shaking his head, his expression pained. Was that an affirmation or a denial?

“I _am_ twenty-one. Do I look like a miscreant to you?” he insisted. Athos tried to bite back a smile at the lad’s answer. Rather petulant, yet endearing, he thought.

“If you say so,” he shrugged, pouring himself a full glass of wine – the last for the night, he promised himself. He took a sip, peering over the rim of the glass at the boy for a few moments, before putting down the glass, careful not to touch its body. “Happy birthday then, boy.”

“Do you really drink that much,” d’Artagnan observed, pointing at the empty wine bottle. Athos grunted, taking the bottle off the table and placing it on the wooden floor. He might have asked the boy to follow him, but it did not mean that he was going to humor any questions, particularly questions of that sort.

“I’m a grown man. Don’t need anyone looking out for me or my health,” he replied, his voice flat. “You on the other hand, are a different matter altogether.” D’Artagnan snorted at Athos’ reply, picking up his glass of vodka.

“Try telling me that again. Been on my own for two days now,” he remarked, unzipping his annoyingly bright salmon-colored sweatshirt and rolling up his sleeves. Athos gave him a questioning look, which the lad caught immediately. He looked away, however, clearly not wishing to elaborate. Athos saw him blink a couple of times, before their eyes met once more, the younger man still holding up his glass of drink, having shaken off the awkward moment. “Besides, I’m certain that I could drink like a man.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Athos challenged as he eyed the glass, doubtful that the boy could gulp the whole thing down without throwing up or collapsing. There was something about Charles d’Artagnan that gave him “lightweight” vibes, but he did not want to embarrass the poor boy until after it happened – if it happened, that was.

D’Artagnan quickly downed the whole drink as Athos watched. There was a confident, cocky grin on the boy’s face as he put his empty glass down, as if basking in some sort of triumph. The expression was short-lived however, as it morphed into one of being sick. The lad opened his mouth and heaved out the burning contents of his stomach. What happened next, however, shocked Athos, for it was not vomit that came out of d’Artagnan’s mouth.

The far side of the wooden table was suddenly aflame, and the once brash, fearless lad could only back away and look on in fear. Athos, his eyes wide with shock, looked down at the dancing flames, then back at d’Artagnan. He placed a fingertip to his lips, his expression grave, before using his free hand to conjure up a stream of shimmering water, directing it towards the flames. Within a few seconds, the fire was extinguished, leaving d’Artagnan’s side of the table dark from the heat. Athos’ expression remained grim, however.

_Taking care of himself, my ass._

“Tell me, the lights…what color were they?” He asked, looking around once more to see if anyone had seen what had happened. “Now’s not the time to be keeping secrets, Charles d’Artagnan. You’re in danger.”

“Drop the Charles. Just d’Artagnan,” the younger man replied, evidently disliking his first name, from the expression on his face and the tone of his voice. “Besides, why should I trust you?”

“This is no place or time to argue, d’Artagnan. I’m just like you. Isn’t that enough reason for you to trust me?” Athos whispered furiously. “What color were the lights?”

“Red. They were red! What’s going on?! Tell me!”

 _Red…fire. Blue, silver and green…water, air and earth. Tell me this isn’t a coincidence,_ Athos thought, his eyes taking on a new light as the associations dawned on him. He hardened his gaze on d’Artagnan.

“Run, boy, run. Before he comes for you. He’s come for my friends, he’s coming for me too,” he warned, pointing at the doors.

“Who’s he? What does he want?”

“The Archbishop. Avoid the Archbishop at all costs.” Athos breathed, before standing up and gripping one of d’Artagnan’s shoulders, pushing him towards the doors of the bar. 

“Don’t worry for me, d’Artagnan. You must get the hell out of here, before he finds you.”

 

* * *

 

**Paris, December 2, Night**

_When I find you guys, I’ll make sure to kill you both for being so stupid and trusting,_ Athos took deep breaths as he removed his leather-gloved hands from the steering wheel of his Porsche, glancing momentarily at the entrance to the catacombs. He saw nobody nearby, nor was there any sign of the Archbishop in the area.

Silently, he turned off his engine and got down, the snow falling in light flurries around him. His steps were slow yet purposeful as he neared the ominous doors he knew Porthos and Aramis had faced, waiting for the Archbishop to show up. Aramis’ Harley was still parked in the same spot, just a short distance away from the entrance, which Athos deduced to mean that there was a good possibility that both his friends were inside, whether dead or alive. He knew all too well Aramis’ feelings for Porthos despite the former’s philandering ways and the latter’s seeming obliviousness; the man would come down swinging for him. If Aramis had somehow agreed to descend under Paris for whatever reason, it was most likely because it had something to do with Porthos.

Athos rewrapped his black scarf around his neck and stuck his hands into the pockets of his black overcoat as he leaned against the one of the outside walls of the catacombs’ entrance and sighed deeply, his breath coming out as thick, white fog in the cold night air. If the Archbishop was coming for him, he was ready, if it meant seeing his friends again and lifting the guilt he felt inside.

“Good evening, Chosen of Water,” a firm, yet kind voice greeted with a certain melancholy. The hairs at the back of Athos’ neck prickled as he froze. Whoever it was talking to him at that moment _knew_. His first guess, by instinct, as to the identity of the speaker was the Archbishop, yet as he took in the voice, he knew that it was not so. It had an air of authority to it, but was kinder, warmer and without the Archbishop’s steely undertone. He turned his head, and his eyes fell on the open doors, and the man who stood outside them. It was indeed a stranger, rather than the man he feared would come.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, monsieur,” the stranger assured, walking up to Athos, who gave the former a once-over. The older man had thin, fair hair, a weathered face, a well-trimmed beard and a build not so different from his own. His eyes were blue, though they weren’t icy, but rather, clear and honest. “Do you happen to know Porthos du Vallon and Aramis d’Herblay?”

“How…how did you know them? Answer me,” Athos whispered, the urgency and fierceness in his voice betraying the mask of seriousness he wore on his face. “And what have we been chosen for?”

“They’re safe with me, Chosen of Water. I apologize for Armand’s methods. He could be brash sometimes.”

 _So, he knows them,_ Athos thought as he took in the news. Part of him was washed over with relief, the guilt lifting itself from his heart. His best friends were safe and unharmed, and he had been worried for nothing. There was still a part of him, however, that remained confused. He still did not know what the man wanted from them, or how he became intimate with the Archbishop, judging from how he addressed the ominous man by his first name. 

“Come with me, I’ll give you answers,” the stranger continued as he beckoned towards the door. For a few moments, Athos hesitated, unable to move. Here was a man who claimed to have seen his friends, and assured him of their safety, yet said man was still a stranger who could just as easily be lying. Yet, there was something honest about his look that made Athos give in and want to trust him, despite his initial reservations. He grimaced as he made his choice, and nodded, striding towards the open doors. 

“Take me to them,” he murmured as the man joined him. Once they were inside, the fair-haired stranger shut the door tight, before looking back.

“Now, about the nature of your powers…tell me, when were you born?”

“November tenth. Just turned twenty-nine,” Athos replied. “What of it?”

“I’m not surprised,” the mysterious man remarked, turning on a flashlight and leading Athos down the stairs. “A Scorpion…it seems to match you.”

There were a few seconds of silence as they descended the steps. While the catacombs were warmer than outside, it was still chilly, and Athos kept his coat and scarf on. As they reached the bottom of the stone steps and entered a cold, stone chamber, the man glanced at him once more.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have met the Chosen of Fire a few hours ago, am I right?” The simple question threw Athos’ thoughts back to the bar, to the impetuous young d’Artagnan who nearly started a fight, and threw up fire, who admitted to seeing red lights and who had now taken off thanks to his warning.

“I…I let him go. Told him to run. I did not understand the situation, monsieur,” he admitted, suddenly not knowing whether he was right or wrong in letting the lad run.

“Do you know where he went?”

“I do not, I just told him to run and avoid the Archbishop…I’m so sorry,” Athos apologized, noticing the alarm behind the older man’s blue eyes.

“No…Rochefort…” the older man murmured, a haunted look taking over his eyes. Athos then knew that he had made a grave error in letting d’Artagnan run. Clearly, he had made a mistake, and he found himself wishing to go back up and rectify it, to seek the boy and bring him back. Whoever this _Rochefort_ was, the stranger definitely did not think fondly of him.

"Who's Rochefort?" Athos asked as the stranger turned and walked in the direction of a narrow, dark tunnel that he was sure was no place for two athletic, grown men with mischievous, restless streaks to live in. He shivered, sure that he would not have dared venture inside alone.

"Nevermind him. I will send Aramis and Porthos to seek out the Chosen of Fire at dawn. For now, I must take you back to the sanctum," he sighed, his tired expression making him look older than his age, which Athos estimated could not be older than forty-five. As the flashlight illuminated the walls of the narrow passage they treaded through, Athos noticed the human skulls and bones that decorated them. "I reckon the sanctum is the best-kept secret of Paris. Perhaps even the whole of France. Not only cataphiles make their home here."

"Monsieur, I must retrieve d'Artagnan myself. After all, it is my fault for putting him in danger," Athos implored, his guilt over potentially putting a young lad in danger tugging at his insides. 

"We need to retrieve him as soon as possible, Chosen of Water. If Rochefort gets his hands on him, there's no telling what could happen," the older man replied firmly. 

"Then let it be the three of us. We're best friends, we can work together and bring back the lad," Athos suggested. The stranger paused for a few moments, an unreadable crossing expression his face as he thought. The younger man stopped beside him, waiting for an answer. Said reply came in the form of a nod.

"Alright, but you better move quickly. As I mentioned, the Chosen of Fire, or any of you for that matter, must not fall into the wrong hands," he relented. "Forgive me for not introducing myself by the way. I'm Jean de Treville. As to who or what I am, I will tell you more once we reach the sanctum."

"Athos de la Fère. Your Chosen of Water," Athos responded drily, a small smile ghosting his lips.

 

* * *

 

**Paris, December 2, Night**

D’Artagnan crossed his arms as he shivered from the cold, his sweatshirt barely keeping him warm. He did not expect winter to set in early, and neither did he think that his move to Paris after his father’s sudden death would be anything more than uneventful.

Fate had other plans for him, however.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” A woman’s voice inquired from behind him, its tone low and intoxicating. D’Artagnan turned around and shrugged. He really did not know where he was supposed to go, only that he was supposed to avoid the Archbishop, as the sad-eyed alcoholic cautioned him to do.

 _But why,_ he wondered, remembering the urgency in the man’s words and actions. Early in the morning, he had awakened to three strange red lights that first hovered in front of him, before colliding into his chest with a burst of ruby light and a burning sensation that lingered until the evening. Was his fear connected to both their powers? He could not forget the shimmering, cold water that flowed from the man’s hand, after all.

The woman who spoke was tall, dark-haired, green-eyed and beautiful, her slender body wrapped in a fine fur coat. Being the hormonal young adult that he was, d’Artagnan could not take her eyes off her. There was something about the woman that compelled him to give her an answer.

“Someone just told me to avoid Archbishop Richelieu and get as far away from Paris as possible,” he admitted. 

The woman raised a dramatic, dark brow as she smiled knowingly, before taking d’Artagnan’s hand. She held it for a few moments before letting go, nodding to herself.

“Come with me. Marmion and I could take you out of Paris and hide you from the Archbishop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...Athos is the Chosen of Water! Most of you got this one right as well! I admit that I chose Water for him because he seems to be the only one of the lads who suits having ice powers! Anyone save Porthos could pull off Water, but only Athos really fits ice.
> 
> Here's Athos' Zodiac profile! I think you saw this sign coming for him. Among the Musketeers, he makes the best Scorpio, don't you think? XD
> 
>  **Athos Olivier de la Fère** | _The Fathomless Deep_ | Chosen of Water  
>  **Age:** 29  
>  **Birthday:** November 10, 11:56 PM  
>  **Sun Sign:** Scorpio ♏  
>  **Moon Sign:** Pisces ♓  
>  **Ascendant:** Cancer ♋
> 
> Now…is d'Art safe with this mysterious woman? 
> 
> EDIT: Forgot to add a few paragraphs. Should be updated now. Way to go for me and my awful copy-paste skills. Woohoo!
> 
> Take note that I did not specify birth years because of actual zodiac technicalities. It would be hell to find perfect matches with the signs I chose, the birthdays and their ages. Because of this, no year is specified as well, though the setting is modern.
> 
> I also updated Richelieu's profile, giving him his actual historical birthday, while everyone else received times of birth as well. I adjusted Porthos' and Aramis' moon signs and ascendants, given their times of birth, after consulting a chart (Ascendants seem to vary by up to 2 signs to the left or to the right, judging from my experiments with the calculator). Still thinking about adding birthplaces.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting guys! I really appreciate it. XD


End file.
